


Letters from the Wasteland

by peppydragon



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Drabble Collection, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional pain, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gore, Language, Loss, NSFW, One Shot Collection, Past Infidelity, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, additional tags will be added as new stand-alones are written, most of those feels are not happy ones, range of emotional feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-15 20:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16940418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppydragon/pseuds/peppydragon
Summary: In these stand-alone chapters, Nora grapples with her losses and her deepening feelings for the companions she relies on to keep her safe and sane.| These one-shot chapters are readable in any, or no, order.Letters from the Wastelandwill be ongoing in perpetuum; tags will be updated as new chapters are written |





	1. Introductions - Nora/Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these characters, places, or some of the situations. Please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **UPDATE: Chapter titles are updated. Chapters proceeded with an * are NSFW. If there is a romantic pairing, it is now listed in the title.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Glory/Nora

 

* * *

 

When Nora finally meets Glory, a full week after arriving, she is entranced. Glory is all contrasts - sharp cheekbones cutting a path to full lips, a tapered nose and strong jaw. She's sheer perfection, or very close to it in Nora's eyes.

And then Glory opens her mouth. Nora's limbs tingle and go cold with chills, delighting in the sultry rasp. "So, you're the new girl. Deacon never mentioned you're so-" Glory's dark eyes slide from Nora's mussed hair to her sloppy, ghoul-splattered combat boots. She's sizing her up, but it isn't in competitiveness. She looks intrigued and slightly wolfish. "Tall," she finishes, smirk widening. Nora is reasonably sure she is blushing, and the knowledge is mortifying.

"Glory, I thought you'd be the last person I'd have to warn to keep it in your pants," Desdemona sighs from where she's looking over maps and notes on the central desk. "Nora, ignore her until she behaves."

Glory laughs, a full, rich vibrato, and Nora nearly forgets her own name. "Alright, heading up top," she tells Desdemona before offering Nora a sincere, "For real, though. It's good to have some fresh meat...no offense."

Before Glory can get away, Nora blurts, "Are you on watch?" Glory raises her brows but doesn't contradict, so Nora continues, "Can I come, too? Learn the route, the perimeter?" That's only half of the reason, but she doesn't need to say that out loud.

"Only if you can keep up."

Nora's butterflies multiple, fluttering wings in her belly. "Like a shadow."

"Shadow," Glory repeats, smile widening. "Yeah. I like that." On her way to the back entrance, Glory rubs Nora's name off of the chalkboard and writes _Shadow_ in its stead. "Alright," she calls over her shoulder. "Come on."

Nora trots along behind her, enthralled by the silver-haired woman and more than a little confused by it.

 

* * *

 

Their perimeter sweep is silent, which Glory was expecting all along, but Nora still finds the absolute stillness confusing. It was odd to go from all-out firefights to calm, empty homes.

Glory stops near the old Charter Street Park, the once-lovely place overrun with creepers and brambles. She turns to Nora, who lights a cigarette to do something with her hands. "So, you're looking for your son?"

Nora swallows a cough and clears her throat. She should have expected that Glory would know; Nora wasn't sure why Glory's knowing soured her stomach. "Yeah," she finally says, a plume of smoking rushing out with the word.

"Do you think he's still out here?"

Nora laughs wryly. "I mean... do I have a choice?"

Glory nods and smiles, tilting her head to the side. "You always have a choice."

"I couldn't forgive myself if he is out there, waiting, and I don't try."

At that one, Glory's smile fades. She plucks the cigarette from Nora's mouth, the sudden closeness surprisingly intimate, and mashes it out on the rusted park railing. "These things are gonna kill you."

"Everything around here can kill me. Might as well look cool in the process."

Glory bites her lower lip, the corners of her mouth turning upward. "You're charming as hell. It's gonna get you in trouble."

"Deacon said it'd take me far."

"Deacon's an idiot," Glory murmurs, leaning against the railing, so close to Nora that their thighs are close to bumping. "Pretty girls need to be dangerous out here, not charming."

"You'd know that from experience?" Nora presses her luck.

Glory laughs, and Nora's legs go weak again. "I've never _not_ been dangerous. It was kind of the point of creating me."

Nora blinks back her surprise, though she isn't sure why the confession confuses her. "Am I the only human in the Railroad?"

"Would that bother you?"

Nora doesn't have to think. "No."

"Then I guess the answer doesn't matter." She changes the topic, so Nora makes a mental note to ask Desdemona when they're alone. "I really hope we have some runs together, Shadow." She leans in a bit, just enough for Nora to catch the scent of leather and gunpowder. "I think we could have some fun."

"Definitely," Nora replies, the butterflies reeling as one.

 

* * *

 


	2. Live and Let Live - Nora/Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora/Glory

* * *

 

 

When she awakes, it's to a hand on her mouth. "Shh," someone whispers in her ear. "You're okay, you're safe. You're at HQ."

The words don't make sense until Nora's panicked eyes take in the surroundings through the gloom. She's in the bell tower of the Old North Church, her new haven away from everyone. She wasn't aware anyone knew about her tiny hovel - the little bed of rags she's assembled, the stash of misshapen candles, a hot plate, and half-burnt magazines.

The hand releases her jaw and Nora finds Glory sitting on her haunches, a soft but worried smile on her lovely face. "You weren't being much of a shadow, up here wailing like that. Might have scared off all the ferals, the way you were wigging out," she gently teases.

Nora sits up. Her side is still tender from the mutant hound attack last week, pinging with each twist of her torso. She manages it, however, and comes face-to-face with her sister-in-arms. "Sorry," she finally mumbles awkwardly, forgetting she hadn't responded already.

"It's cool," Glory shrugs, her legs unfurling from under her to stretch out. "I was on my way up here anyway. It used to be my getaway, too," she adds with a soft chuckle, leaning back on her hands. She looks casual, which is something Nora never expected from hard-as-nails Glory. "It just feels... cleaner, I guess."

Nora nods and tears her eyes from Glory's wistful face. She sits in the cold air, letting it crisp along her lungs. She's freezing, but it's a comforting freezing. It reminds her of Christmas Eve on Lake Mattawa, Mr. and Mrs. Hammons' lakehouse covered in icicle lighting and blood-red poinsettias. It reminds her of nights in the backyard with Nate and Rascal, the dumb dog that went missing a few weeks before the bombs fell.

"Hey," Glory whispers, but Nora doesn't turn her eyes back. "I know... Deacon kind of told me some stuff. About your whole... situation." Silence fills the air until Glory presses through it with the patience of a saint. "I just wanted to say that... I guess, that we're all family here? So if you need to talk, about anything, I'm here."

Nora bites her cheek, not sure how to respond. She's becoming numb to the helpful offers, but something about Glory's feels good. There's something to her voice that makes Nora relax, her hackles lowering. "Thanks," she says, not sure what else there is to say.

For a moment, Nora thinks Glory might leave, but she doesn't. She angles herself to better lean against the wall, her dark lips still quirked in a half-smile. "I was gonna keep watch up here if that's okay."

"Sure," Nora mumbles. There's something tight in her chest but she can't identify what it is. She lays down on the pile of rags, trying to ignore the scent of turpentine on one of them. She's been too tired to find which one it is, to toss it out onto the street like some common litterbug. But what's the point of keeping the street clean now?

Nora tries to sleep, but it eludes her. She is fairly sure that Glory is watching her turn and thrash, adjusting her makeshift pillow to and fro. But when she sits up, she finds Glory looking out through a broken piece of wood siding, ever vigilant.

"Come over here," Glory whispers as if she knows Nora is watching her.

Nora slides across the rotting wood to join Glory at the slat, wincing as she moves in close to peer into the darkened street. There's a deathclaw shuffling through, snorting as it does. Glory doesn't move for the pistol on her hip and neither does Nora. They watch it, heads pressed together, as it slinks away without fanfare.

"Should we have killed it?" Nora asks, turning her head to Glory and nearly kissing her jaw when she does. She pulls back a little, her heart thumping in her chest. She wonders if Glory can detect it; if synths have superior hearing, if they can feel things like heartbeats and stammered breaths on the air.

Glory turns her face, as well, and their noses are nearly brushing. Neither move, but Glory's lips are turning up at the corners. "Maybe. I just figured... maybe tonight, we can just live and let live."

Nora wants to kiss her; Nora isn't sure if she's ever wanted anything more. But she controls herself, working to even her breathing and to keep her eyes from lowering to Glory's lips.

Glory chuckles and pulls back, settling herself against the wall again before opening her arms. Nora goes to her without prompting. Her forehead brushes Glory's jaw as she settles in, nose pressing into the oiled leather of her coat. She smells like something sweet. Spilled wine, maybe. Maybe she'd procured a bottle of perfume somewhere along the way. That doesn't sound like Glory, but Nora doesn't know her that well yet.

Glory's arm wraps around her and her chin rests on Nora's head. "Get some sleep, Shadow," she murmurs gently, pressing a chaste kiss to her hair. "I'll keep the monsters away."

 

* * *

 


	3. Medicine - Nora/Hancock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora/Hancock

* * *

 

Her hands won't stop shaking. She keeps clenching them, holding them still, breathing through slightly parted lips. She tries imagining the slowly closing and opening circle that her old therapist suggested for anxiety. Open the circle - breathe in. Close the circle - breathe out.

Nora opens her eyes and finds Hancock watching her. She isn't surprised; he's always watching her. Usually, she appreciates his fastidiousness, but something about it now is making her chest heat with anger. "What?" she snaps.

Hancock raises his hands in a universal surrender, turning his attention to his pack, rifling through it. It is Nora's turn to skewer him with her gaze. When he finishes shuffling around, he has produced a thick leather sack.

His stash, she realizes, and her mouth goes dry. She expects him to offer her something, as he has in the past, but he doesn't. He sorts through his treasures and produces a tin, the little pills inside clinking against the metal. He pops two, inky eyes finally rising to her.

"How's it going, sister?" he asks, knowing goddamn well how it is going. She thought she was at the end of the road. She thought she was finally going to find Shaun; to get some idea where he was at the very least. But all she has to show for her efforts is blood on her pants and flannel.

They sit in silence before Nora lets out a heavy breath. It's tinged with a sob, but she keeps herself together. "Do you... do you have something to make this hurt less?" she finally whispers.

Hancock doesn't question her as he pulls a box from the sack. She watches, heart in her throat as he pulls a capped syringe out, placing it delicately in the crabgrass patch beside him. "Come 'ere," he says, pulling a supply of medical equipment out.

Nora slides across the dirt to him, more eager than she has ever been, and he takes her left arm. He pushes up the sleeve of her flannel, tucking it under with care. His gnarled fingers feel strange against her skin as he works. He cleans the bend of her elbow with some tequila before tying her upper arm off with a piece of cloth; Nora worries she'll lose the arm, wincing at the pain.

Right when her fingers begin to tingle from lost blood, Hancock picks up the syringe, placing it to her flesh. She can see the blue-green vein, standing to attention beneath the slender needle. "Alright?" he asks.

"Alright," she breathes before she can weaken.

The needle is a soft twinge as it slides the millimeter into her. Nora gasps at the immediate warm feeling around the injection point. Hancock unties her arm, throwing the wasted syringe far into the woods with a careless toss. He keeps her steady as the waves of warmth wash through her, veins feeling as if they are bathed in spiced eggnog or something else thick and wintery.

"Wow," she whispers.

Hancock chuckles. She looks up at him, having difficulty processing the pitted skin on his face. She reaches out, placing a hand to his cheek, narrowing her eyes. It doesn't feel like skin, but it's too warm and familiar to be anything else.

"At least you're not screaming," he says, tone light. "I'll take horrified-petting by a pretty lady over yelling anyday."

Nora opens her mouth to apologize, but what comes out is, "I really thought he'd be there. It's kind of...kind of stupid, isn't it?"

"Maybe a little," he concedes, but he isn't harsh. Quite the opposite. "We all gotta be a little stupid sometimes, to keep on going out here."

She laughs because she doesn't know what else to do. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Hancock doesn't answer; he doesn't need to. He's seen the room she'd been trapped it. He's seen the thick layer of dust on Nate and Shaun's pod.

"I don't even know when they took him. I don't know why I keep...why I keep going," she says. Everything is numb. She can see it all so clearly now, now without the pain and anguish soaking through her. "Why I can't just-just slide into my roles, concentrate on doing what I can right now, not clinging to the past? I have settlements to build. I have synths to protect. Goddamnit, Hancock, why the fuck can't I let go?"

Hancock doesn't answer at first. He pulls her sleeping pallet from her pack and lays it out close to him. "Can you forgive yourself if you just let go?" He waits, but she doesn't say anything. He smiles wanly and pats her pallet.

She slides onto the crinkling polyester, pressing her face against Hancock's thigh. She thinks he might be stroking her hair, but her eyelids are droopy and her eggnog blood pumps slowly, methodically, easing her into sleep.

 

* * *

 


	4. * Hate - Nora/Hancock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - Nora/Hancock. Referenced drug use, masturbation, sex, feels.

* * *

 

 

Nora's mouth is chalky with mentats, dry and scratchy. She knows she might be getting a cold, being out here in the drizzling rain with only a scant canopy of leaves to protect her. Even so, she doesn't go for the blanket in her pack or shove her face into her sleeping bag. She lays on the top of it, staring up into the droplets, wincing when they find her eyes.

She wishes she hadn't accepted the mentats. She wishes she wasn't so fucking aware of everything; of the rasp of her own breathing, throat like cotton. She wishes she wasn't so fucking aware to hear Hancock on the other side of the fire.

Nora's heard him masturbate before, but there is something irritating about it now. Maybe she's jealous in a way - that he is so comfortable with himself, and her, that he can whip it out and go to town. She's never been sure of herself in that regard. She wonders if the fault lies in the repression of her former life. She wonders that a lot now.

Hancock is muffling his grunts, but she can still hear them. She hates it. God, she hates hearing him.

She sits up and Hancock slows his pace but doesn't stop. Nora isn't sure what she expected, really. She hesitates there, jaw hurting from clenching so much, tongue tasting like fake raspberries.

"Alright, sister?" he asks. He's still stroking, but slowly, quietly. She can barely see the movement through the fire.

She doesn't reply; she simply gets up and moves around the fire, coming to stand above him. He's shameless, still stroking himself. She can't make out details, her body blocking the light; she isn't even sure if she wants to know.

Nora wiggles out of her pants, underwear following. Swatting his hand away from his cock, she lowers to a crouch above him, waiting.

Hancock guides her, which she is thankful for in the back of her mind, the part that she can barely feel past the angry, anxious feeling in her belly. He positions himself with one hand, bumping around for a moment, long enough to make Nora hiss, "Jesus, hurry up."

He may have been doing it on purpose, giving her an out, because he thrusts into her before the final word leaves her mouth. She hisses at the pain, but it gets better with each uncoordinated roll of her hips. Hancock is blessedly quiet beneath her as she works, as her eyes close and she imagines Nate.

It's hard to do sometimes; nearly impossible with Glory, but easier with Hancock. All she has to do is close her eyes and the motions are similar enough to trick her for a few milliseconds.

Hancock's hands find her neck, and the illusion is ruined. The pitted skin pulls her down, making a shot of terror run through her, and he presses his lipless mouth to hers.

Nora shouts, muffled by his skin, and pulls back with narrowed eyes. "What the fuck?" she seethes. He stares at her, not understanding, and she hits his chest, right above his heart. It's harder than she means, but she isn't about to tame her temper when he grunts. "Don't."

"Understood," he gives in, not seeming offended or surprised. "No touching."

Nora tries to close her eyes, but the illusion is broken and she can't salvage it. "Fuck," she mutters, sliding off of him and glaring. "Just...get behind me."

He doesn't complain. He waits for her to position herself, to lift her hips for him, refusing to touch. She appreciates the gesture until he begins to move and it's slow, unsteady rocking.

"Harder," she commands, but the pace only increases marginally. "What are you doing back there?"

"It's a little difficult without hands, sunshine," he reminds her.

She bites back a retort. "Fine." The word burns in her sore throat. "Waist and below."

His reply, "Yes, ma'am," is punctuated with his rough hands vicing on her hips, cock thrusting hard, rattling a gasp from her mouth. Her body is already flaming, the hot, tight thing in her core concentrating, begging her to lean into it, to let it go, to let it happen.

But she doesn't. She bites her lower lip until it bleeds, salty metal breaking her free from the desires one second at a time. She clenches her eyes closed, she tries to think of Nate, but all she can feel is puckered, sinewy skin against hers.

He comes. She doesn't.

Hancock puts his pants back on. He seems relaxed, but there's a tension between them, something unspoken but loud. Nora pretends she doesn't feel it. Instead, she picks up her jeans and retreats to her pallet. She leaves them off, planning to finish what she refused to let Hancock start. Before she can, Hancock is close. His breath smells like a tin of fruit candies. "Least I can do is help you out, too," he offers, but he doesn't make a move.

"Help me out by going to sleep. And masturbate quieter next time."

She watches his face, hoping her pointed words work, hoping a flash of hurt, of anger, might end his infatuation with her. But she sees nothing when he chuckles, "Whatever you need, sunshine."

She hates it. She loves it. She can't tell which way is up.

Nora tucks her face into the flannel interior of her sleeping bag and practices holding back tears, the need inside of her cold and hollow.

 

* * *

 


	5. * And Then You - Nora/Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - Nora/Glory. Feels, fingering.

* * *

 

 

"I know this song."

Nora doesn't mean to say it; she doesn't mean to give herself away. But she does because Glory turns abruptly, dark eyes meeting Nora's pale ones. Glory doesn't seem offended at her sudden appearance, though she does stop sorting through the rags Nora calls a bed.

"I didn't think you'd be out here for a while," Glory says in lieu of a greeting. She continues sorting, but she does so awkwardly, her hands hesitating on each strip of cloth. "I was just thinking you could use some real threads up here."

"Such as they are," Nora laughs, lowering herself to the church bell tower's floor across from Glory. She takes a moment to admire the ratty mattress and blanket Glory has procured for her before reaching for rags, tossing the too-dirty-to-exist ones into a growing pile. She finds the one that smells like turpentine. For some reason, part of her wants to keep it - the one that kept her up most nights, reminding her of how Nate smelled in High School after leaving his part-time job at Red Rocket.

But she tosses it into the large pile and glances down at the small assortment of usable cloth. "I should have gone through these sooner," she admits aloud.

"No shit," Glory laughs. The sound is like rustic windchimes, gorgeous and rasping slightly around the edges. "But I'm not one to judge. Most nights I'm off-duty, I pass out in a bottle of vodka, so."

Nora smiles before looking at the radio Glory has hooked up beside the bed. It glows a soft yellow while the song coos through the room, so softly that the words are almost indistinct. She bites her lower lip, trying to keep herself from sobbing. She danced to this song during her Junior prom - she wore blue; Nate wore white.

Nora stands and clenches her jaw before awkwardly shoving her hand out toward Glory. "Dance with me."

Glory looks up at her through long, dark eyelashes before chuckling. She gets to her feet and takes Nora's hand, hesitating. "I have no idea how to dance," she admits, but she sounds more amused than embarrassed.

Nora pulls her in. She isn't used to leading, has never led before, but she tries to mimic her memories of Nate. She wraps an arm around Glory's waist, the leather of her coat shifting as she steps closer.

It is more of an awkward shuffle at first, all feet, but the pair settles into something like a dance. Glory is warm in Nora's frigid arms. She's just like any other person, any other girl, and Nora is confused yet again as to why the synths are mistrusted any more than humans. That they are even a concern.

Glory tucks her face against Nora's clavicle and Nora's heart hammers. She tries to ignore it, but Glory won't let her. "Bum-bum-bum," she mimics Nora's heart. Nora can feel Glory's smile widening against her bare throat. "What's got you so wound up, Shadow?"

"Nora," she corrects. "Up here I'm just Nora."

Glory pulls her face back only enough to meet Nora's gaze. "Nora," she says, and the name flowers, bursting into bloom. "I like it."

Nora leans in; Glory does, too, meeting her lips and pressing against her a little harder. Nora loses all sense, forgetting about their dance. Her hands go to Glory's fop of silvery hair, pushing the strands from her face. Glory's jaw is strong and sharp under Nora's hands, and Nora desperately caresses it with her thumbs, running from jaw to cheekbone, feeling each cutting angle.

The song ends, the swell and drop-off leaving them in the cold room, breathing hard as the enchantment fades. The next begins, another Nora knows but can't identify. "I..." Nora tries to say, but Glory's smile stops her. Glory takes her hand and leads her the few steps to the new mattress.

Nora slips out of her ill-fitted blouse and cigarette trousers. Her fingers fumble over the clasps of her bra, but Glory returns to her before she can finish. The woman's hands join Nora's on the band, easily unhooking the monstrosity. She smooths the cloth down Nora's arms, but her eyes never leave Nora's.

"I-" Nora stops herself because she can't determine what she wants to say. Glory's smile is so goddamn _knowing_ that it makes Nora's chest ache.

"You might be more comfortable on the bed?" she offers, and Nora swallows. She moves to the mattress, hesitantly laying down, trying to convince herself that there is a reason to stop this. But Glory is taking off her coat and the scarf coiled around her neck, leaving her shirt and jeans on. She leans over Nora, peppering kisses along her chest, warm hands smoothing along Nora's sides and the swells of her hips.

Nora pulls Glory down and their mouths crush together. Nora is having trouble catching her breath, her fingers trembling as they shudder over the scars and nicks along Glory's back, down to her waist, squeezing and kneading the flesh that hides complex circuitry. Glory is a stunningly good kisser, her tongue effortlessly running circles around Nora's clumsy one. Glory's even better with her fingers, the digits rolling from her breasts and nipples to the underwear covering Nora's apex.

"Yeah?" Glory asks, voice husky as her fingers stall, a hot weight hovering above her cunt.

"Yeah," Nora gasps and Glory eases the simple white cotton down Nora's legs. Her fingers expertly slip between her folds, caressing her labia before unhurriedly moving lower.

Nora mewls with each flick, with each pass of Glory's hand along the root and head of her clit. Nora closes her eyes and, for a guilty moment, tries to think of Nate. It's impossible; Glory's hands are decidedly not Nate's. They are sure, steady as they manipulate her perfectly, bringing her waves of lightheaded joy.

"Glory-" Nora whimpers.

"Shh," Glory murmurs, leaning down to place a kiss to Nora's lips. "Just relax."

Nora does as asked. Nora doesn't know what else to do. She feels her heart stammering, threatening to give out if she keeps holding back on the release her body desires so much.

When she comes, she does so wordlessly. Glory's fingers keep going, thumb rough on her clit and two fingers shoving knuckle-deep inside of her. Glory milks her for all she is worth, and Nora's world keeps fracturing, everything tasting like metal.

When Nora finally comes back to her body, Glory's fingers have slowed and, eventually, stop. Nora is rasping for breath, not sure if she's in the middle of a cardiac arrest. But Glory lowers herself beside Nora and pulls her into a fierce hug.

Nora hadn't realized she was crying, but her cheeks are wet and cold in the night air. Glory holds her, lips skimming across her temple. "Get some rest," Glory says against her hair.

Not for the first time tonight, Nora does as she is told.

 

* * *

 


	6. Spun Out - Nora/Hancock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora/Hancock bonding. Drug use. Heavy mentions of Nate.

* * *

 

"So what happened to him?" Hancock asks, seemingly forgetting decorum. If he's ever known what decorum is. Even so, he seems interested and Nora is too out of it to come up with another excuse.

"Nate? I don't know," she answers honestly. She isn't sure if he can hear her over the fire's crackles. The wind takes her words before she can even understand them, but Hancock waits, so she continues. "He didn't remember any of it - the Sino-American War, I mean. The Army said he was in China for a specialized assault, but Nate didn't remember leaving the Canadian front." She pauses, eyes narrowing at Hancock through the flicker of snapping flame. "You have no idea where I'm talking about, do you?"

"Nah," he admits, his lips that aren't-quite-lips curling up around the edges. It looks painful, like the skin might split at any moment. It's a horrifying prospect, but Nora is too wine-drunk to stop thinking about it, imagining tiny blood trails from the corners of his mouth. "But this ain't about me," he continues, leaning back against his pack. "Tell away, sister."

Nora exhales sharply, the movement puffing her cheeks for a moment. "He didn't think he left the mainland. He remembered going to bed in the barracks. He remembered it being cold. It was December-something, 2073. I don't know exactly when it happened; God knows Nate couldn't remember. But sometime in January, he was supposedly sent to China, to face them on their home turf. Sometime in there, his regiment was decimated and he was the only one left."

"That sounds like a lotta unknowns."

Nora's lips twist into a wry smile. "They called it 'localized amnesia.' They said he was repressing it, that he couldn't stand the guilt of being the only man left alive. But when he came back..." she swallows and tries to control her shaking fingers by curling them in with one another. "He came home without bullet wounds, without any sign of war on his body...except for the injection points. He had scars in the hollows of his elbows, the back of his knees, his throat, his thighs. It looked like someone had taken needles to every artery, every vein they could find."

She lets out some air, deflating her shoulders, trying to smooth out the tension. She is wound like a bow's string and wishes Glory was here. Glory could calm her down in the way Glory always could. "He didn't remember being in a single battle. He'd only been stationed for two months at one of the smaller outposts. He'd gone through a year of training and two months on the front, and then -- suddenly his regiment was dead and he was the only one left alive."

"And he couldn't remember anything," Hancock finishes, shaking his head. He removes his hat and Nora watches as a grizzled hand runs over a pitted skull. "Shit, sister."

Nora shrugs, but the tension is back. It's never left. It will never leave. She leans forward and pokes at the beans still in the bottom of the pan. They're beginning to congeal, but she doesn't take them from the fire. Instead, she mumbles, "I think the Army lied to us. I think the government had been lying to us all along. I don't -- I just know that Nate would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, but it wasn't about getting shot at or landmines, or... He woke up begging 'them' to stop, to let him go home, that he'd never talk about anything they'd done."

Hancock moves closer and Nora is surprised to realize she's glad for it. "You think they were experimenting on him?"

She shrugs and looks out into the dark. Everything is quiet. Nora misses the sound of owls, she realizes. She misses the one that used to sit in a tree behind their backyard, cooing into the air. She misses how Nate would curse it when it would wait until he was close to sleep before beginning its haunting call.

"I just know that there's no way he was vaccinated over 25 times." One of her hands finds the bend of her other arm, hovering above the raw skin and the tiny holes there. God, she hates herself. "He had twenty-seven injections, and that's just what I managed to find. There is no way that those were all precautionary immunizations."

Hancock is quiet. When she glances at him, she sees him watching her hand as it wavers above her arm, above the four red pinpricks. She wonders if he regrets giving her the morphine, now that he knows the story. But he says nothing about it, reaching for his pack and procuring a thick but ratty blanket. "Come on, sunshine, get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

She is sure she won't be able to close her eyes, but the weight and scent of Hancock's blanket make her eyes droop and her breath steady. "Thanks," she thinks she mumbles, but it may have only been a snore.

 

* * *

 


	7. * Landmine - Character Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - Animal death

* * *

 

 

It all happens in slow motion.

Dogmeat grabs her by the pant leg, snarling, and she loses her balance. She wants to snap at him, but she can hear Hancock rustling through the low-hanging branches, approaching the other side of the encampment. The super mutants inside are still unaware, but they won't be for long if she starts yelling.

Dogmeat growls and Nora's throat goes dry. But Dogmeat isn't snarling at her. He's growling into the night air in front of them.

"Damnit," she whispers, swatting Dogmeat's rump to get him to move. It usually works, but this time he is a statue, fur standing on end around his spine. "Dogmeat, go," she orders, but for once, he doesn't listen to her. When she moves to stand, he shoves her down again, nails sharp on her exposed forearm.

She doesn't know what his problem is, but she can't leave Hancock alone; he'll die in seconds if she does. Nora shoves Dogmeat aside again, harder this time, before getting to her feet and sneaking forward.

Dogmeat lets out a noise that she's never heard, startling her and the super mutants in the camp. She hears a gruff, "Who's there?!" shouted from below the hill. She moves a little faster, faster than she should, to get to her vantage point.

Dogmeat's teeth find her leg and she's on her backside again, biting back curses of pain. He's broken the skin, she can tell that much. Before she has to decide what to do with the mutt, he runs ahead, directly to the vantage point.

A landmine goes off. Dogmeat goes down.

She forgets herself. She runs toward him, halting when she sees him struggling. His back legs are gone, and he is whimpering in horrified yelps. Nora inhales a sob as she watches him try to crawl toward her, his sweet eyes wet and wide with panic, pain, or love. She can't tell.

Hancock is at her elbow, grabbing it, whispering hotly in her ear that they have to go. Now. But she can't stop staring at Dogmeat, at the mongrel who has saved her more times than she can count.

She pulls out her 10mm. She pulls the trigger. Hancock pulls her away.

Nora is shaking when they finally reach their previous campsite, fingers fumbling uselessly with thin air. She doesn't have to ask him; Hancock produces a bottle of vodka and morphine, putting the first in Nora's trembling hand, and the second in Nora's vein.

 

* * *

 

 


	8. * Lettie - Nora/Lettie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFWish - Infidelity. Nora/Neighbor from Sanctuary Hills. Mentions of Nate.

* * *

 

Nora goes back to Lettie's house and curls up in Preston's borrowed sleeping bag, tucking her face against the ratty fleece interior. She tries to pretend that it's the winter flannel sheets that Nate hated. They made him sweat, he would complain loudly, but he never asked Nora to take them off because Nora loved them and Nate loved her.

Nora's breath hitches and a sob tears from her throat. It isn't a surprise; she's felt it prowling the back corners of her skull. She's expected the exhaustion, the tears, once she was finally alone. She hadn't expected the memories of the Vault, of her neighbors in their pods. Of Lettie. Sweet, vivacious Lettie.

She covers her mouth with a hand, hysterics muffled. She closes her eyes and imagines Lettie's cherubic face pulled up in childlike glee. She remembers how Lettie would come over late at night with ice cream when their husbands guarded and fought at the Canadian border. She thinks about how Lettie's full lips would promise Nora everything was going to be okay. That Nate would come home. That they would have an idyllic life. A baby. Cookouts on the weekends.

And then there are other memories of Lettie, the ones Nora tries to block out. Her slick skin in the moonlight, the rasp of her voice when she moved above Nora, fingers buried within and mouth traveling southward, green earrings tinkling against her jaw. How her lips darkened a startling red after bruising kisses. How she tried to muffle herself in the summer heat when the windows were open. How the neighbors probably knew about the illicit affair yet said nothing out of propriety.

"Fuck," Nora hisses into the sleeping bag, curling in on herself, the tears coming harder. Lettie. Sweet, gorgeous, strong Lettie. Lettie, who never fell to pieces. Lettie would whisper, _It's all gonna be alright, pumpkin. They're gonna come home and we'll...we'll see from there._

We'll see from there.

Nate came home. Daniel did not. And Lettie and Nora continued to see one another, the guilt nowhere near as overwhelming as Nora's need for the other woman.

Nora wonders if Nate ever realized what was going on when she'd slip over to Lettie's for a sleepover. Nora wonders if he realized this kind of thing could happen, that his wife could be torn asunder between her high school sweetheart and the redheaded whirlwind next door.

 _Would you leave him?_ she asked on their last night together, three days before the bombs fell. _If things were different._

 _Yes,_ Nora admitted, and the admission somehow made her heart lighter.

_What if...things weren't different? What if we just...left? You, me, and Shaun._

Nora's head rose from Lettie's collarbone, admiring how her blue eyes sparkled in the faint glow from the television playing static on mute. _Yes._

Lettie's face sobered. She reached for Nora, a slender hand curling in her mussed tresses, pulling her in for a kiss. _Where do you want to go first?_

 _Somewhere far away. Somewhere warm,_ Nora murmured, lips meeting hers over and over until the plan seemed real.

 

* * *

 


	9. Fracture. Disintegrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora, Preston (early game). Violence against ghouls. Mentions of pre-war.

* * *

 

"I need to go back to Sanctuary once I get you to Diamond City."

The words sting, but Nora has expected them. "You're not responsible for me, Preston."

Preston nods and returns to poking at the fire. The silence is deafening, but Nora sits through it. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and places one to her lips, leaning dangerously close to the fire to light it. Nora can't see anything but the flames. She wonders if things caught fire when the bombs went off, or if it was just a scorch from the rays. She wonders if she would have disintegrated or fractured like the branches in the campfire. She wonders what happened to all of her neighbors corralled outside of the vault, denied passage. How quickly did they die? Were they some of the unlucky ones, the ones who suffered for days or weeks while their wounds slowly killed them?

Her forehead prickles with the heat, but she pulls back before the flames can burn. She breathes in and holds the smoke in her mouth, tongue rolling through the heat, relishing. It feels like sparks when it hits her lungs, but she doesn't cough. She exhales slowly, watching the plume as it filters into the darkness. Fracturing. Disintegrating.

"I thought you didn't smoke." It isn't a question, more of a statement to the wind, but Nora answers it anyway.

"I used to, then I decided I wanted a kid and a safe lifetime more than a glorious nicotine high." She shrugs, offering Preston a wry smile. "What's the point now?"

Preston's displeasure matches hers. "I guess it's as good an argument as any." He stabs the fire. More sparks erupt, sending up a cosmos of golden stars.

 

* * *

 

They are only a mile out of Boston, the early morning sun weakly poking through clouds, when the ghouls surprise them. Preston has warned Nora about them, but she's not prepared when they come face-to-face. When the first one lunges at her, she can barely move, staring at the thing in mounting horror.

Preston must have shot it because it lands at her feet in a flopping pile, limbs akimbo, bending with unnatural ease. Nora gapes at it, only torn from her fear when Preston shouts.

A ghoul is on him. Nora's instinct kicks in. Nora feels the adrenaline spike, her heart slowing, her eyes sharpening on the thing holding Preston. Her 10mm is out before she can think. Nora lines up the shot as best as she can. She pulls the trigger. The first two sail past and into the building behind Preston. Nora lets out a slow breath, and the third connects perfectly.

The ghoul slumps, but one of its hands is still secured on Preston, holding him at the lapel. Nora doesn't go to help; she scans the road, the rusted cars that hid the things. Nothing moves, but if Preston's warnings are right, there are never so few in one place.

She moves to the cars, gun steady in her hands. She ignores the rasp of Preston sputtering, "Nora! Get back here!" She ignores the sounds of his rustling as he struggles to unhook the vice-gripped ghoul.

She finds one under a car, unmoving. Nora's finger pulls the trigger, not knowing or caring if it is asleep or dead. The thing doesn't move or make a sound, but she draws the trigger two more times, hand steady, eyes focusing on the head as it fractures. Disintegrates.

The thing on the ground isn't moving, but the sound of guttural shrieks are suddenly around her. Others are there, and others are now running, seeking fingers swinging toward her.

Nora doesn't have time to shout at herself. She doesn't have time to do anything but raise the gun, inhale, pull the trigger, exhale. It becomes a mantra, a hot, searing thing repeating and coiling through her brain. Inhale, trigger, exhale.

Six of them fall before they can reach her, but the seventh is lucky - she's out of ammo, forgetting to count the bullets, the times she's pulled the trigger. Her heart seizes, and the cool, collected feeling in her limbs is gone. She fumbles for another clip, but the thing is tearing toward her.

Preston shouts behind her and Nora's flight response finally kicks in. She turns and runs. She's sure she's going to get out of the way, to give Preston the shot he's lining up. Nora's so sure she's fine.

But then she is wrenched back, feet flying out from beneath her as the ghoul tears her to the ground. The thing has grabbed her hair. The same hair Mama Murphy suggested she cut.

Nora may have cursed the Sight in her last moments had a rough hand not clamped around her neck. She can feel it's breath on her, its screech in her ear, and she closes her eyes.

In those last milliseconds, Nora remembers a zombie movie she and Nate had seen. It was their first date - the football captain and the cheerleader. Everyone knew it was coming before they had; things had a way of happening like that. Nora hadn't paid much attention to the movie, more focused on her small hand in Nate's large one.

Toward the end of the film, a zombie grabbed onto the lead actress' throat, her final seconds being used to stare into the eyes of her lover. Nora's throat had sealed up, and she let out a choked sob. She wasn't sure why at the time - she had no connection to the movie, to the cast. The zombies hadn't scared her. But for some reason, that look in the actress' eyes had resonated.

And it still does. It is the same look Nate gave her in their last seconds together.

Nora uses her final breath to let out a choked sob.

She doesn't realize that she isn't dead. But as each breath slips from her mouth, the confusion mounts. She isn't dead. She's still here. She's still needed. Shaun needs her.

Nora looks up, and Preston is walking toward her, his mouth pulled into a hard line, eyes narrowed. He doesn't patronize her - he doesn't have to, she can see it all over his face - but she appreciates the gesture all the same.

Preston helps her up, and Nora straightens her dirty shirt under the leather harness around her chest, swallowing. The ghoul that should have been her undoing is missing its head, sprawled out behind her. "Thanks."

Preston grunts something that may be a laugh or a verbal grimace. "You watch my back, I watch your back." She thinks he will leave it at that, but he adds, "For God's sake, don't do that again. To me or whatever unlucky bastard tries to help you in the future."

A part of her wants to snap that she doesn't need help, but that point has been thoroughly disproven. "I feel bad for anyone who decides I'm worth the time to help, to be honest." Preston doesn't laugh at that, but his face softens. They don't speak; they follow the freeway to where it drops them into the ruins of Boston.

 

* * *

 


	10. Haircut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora, Nat. Brief mentions of Nate.

* * *

 

The dream is lifelike. She feels every scrape of Nate's stubble across her neck, his tongue on her clavicle, each nail as they furrow into her hips. But everything shifts when a hand raises to her throat, holding her in place, and a shriek fills her ears. The other hand grabs her hair, fisting it and twisting.

She feels hot breath on her neck now, a dehydrated tongue on her jugular, gnashing teeth closing in. The feral's pitted skin is on hers, so dry and sinewy.

She shouts herself awake.

Nora sits in the hum of the Publick Occurrences, her heart hammering. Nat, Piper's little sister, pokes her head around the breezeblocks that separate the main room from hers. "You alright, lady?" she asks, blinking blearily.

"Yeah," Nora breathes, but her chest feels like it's exploding. "Um...is there a place around here to cut my hair?"

Nat laughs. "Thank God you said it first. I didn't know how to bring it up, but I think it's knotted beyond repair in the back." Nat gets out of her sleeping bag, checking the clock and nodding. "Come on. John should be there."

Nora follows Nat into the square, still mostly empty in the early morning, but John the barber is in his makeshift shop. Nora gives Nat some bottlecaps for noodles and John another 15 for the haircut. Preston gave her 200 of the strange currency, but she still isn't sure of the exchange rate or how to use them.

"I can tell you right now - I at least need to cut this off to the chin," John warns her when he looks at the long mess of hair.

Nora takes one last look at herself in the hand mirror, at the thick tresses that were the envy of Sanctuary Hills. "Take it all," she says, handing the mirror back and sitting up straighter. "Cut the whole thing off."

"Yes, ma'am," John hums, reaching for a pair of sheers and preparing the clippers. "One Scavver Skull, coming right up."

When the whole ordeal finishes, Nora feels at ease. She hadn't expected that; she'd maintained her hair to the highest of standards in her old life. But out here, what's the point?

She sits next to Nat at the ramen bar, smoking a cigarette while Nat shares her noodles and rubs Nora's smooth head. Nora smokes four before she finally gets to her feet, anxious and in need of stimulation.

"Do you guys deliver your papers?" she asks.

Nat snorts. "You kidding me? McDonough would lose his last shit if we did."

"What if I deliver them on my own? Say...without you or Piper's influence?"

Nora thinks Nat might ask her to repeat herself the way the girl's eyes become saucers, but instead, Nat exclaims, "Adults must have been way cooler pre-war."

"I don't know about that," Nora murmurs as they retrace their path toward Publick Occurrences. "Cleaner, though. And maybe less blatantly murderous."

Nat sighs. It sounds longing, and that breaks Nora's heart more than she'd like to admit.

 

* * *

 

 


	11. * Affection - Nora/Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Link to Spotify with the musical inspiration](https://open.spotify.com/track/7trx783SvnHhKkmgSSTIFJ?si=ab6OnlnRSfa-ZGrUZbl5KQ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - Nora/Hancock. Feels, fingering, vaginal sex.

* * *

  
When they finally reach their temporary camp, a military outpost in the middle of nowhere, Nora breaks down. Hancock holds her in spite of her insistence that she's fine. "I don't want you touching me," she had snapped, hoping it would make him leave her alone for a while. Forever. She didn't care at that moment.

But he grabs for her and she goes to him anyway. Nora presses her face against his throat, half on his collar, half on his destroyed skin. So many leads that led to nothing, so many false starts, so many times -

"What's the point?" she asks against his jugular.

His neck vibrates weakly when he lets out a wry laugh. "I don't know, sister. It's all a sham, probably."

She pulls back. Hancock watches her with real emotion in his eyes. He's shaken, too, but he holds it back for her. Nora isn't sure if Hancock is doing it intentionally, or if he's really that good of a guy. "Why are you still with me?"

"You're the best thing that's happened in this shit world," he replies with no hint of exaggeration, no mote of irony.

Nora kisses him, his hat brim mashing into her forehead. She swipes it aside, expecting Hancock to laugh when the tricorn hits the floor, casual as ever. He doesn't, though he does grab her around the waist with one hand, the other sliding through the shards of her shorn hair.

She has expected to be off-put by the sensation of him so close, but Nora's mouth is as eager as his. When Hancock's tongue slides over her lower lip, she opens to him while fumbling between them, scrabbling at the flag knotted around his waist. She struggles for what feels like an eternity before pulling back and snapping, "Did you glue this to your pants?"

He laughs, and she can't help but smile. There it is, that natural grace. That's what she needs right now, something familiar, something that makes her feel normal. She can't think about -

Hancock bites her lower lip, startling her back. His hands have covered hers and are guiding her to the knot, untying it. They unbutton his pants together, the motions awkward but somehow entrancing and intimate.

Before his legs are entirely free, his hands push his coat from her shoulders, shoving it down her arms and leaning in to press his face against her neck, fingers going to her jeans. Nora's throat keeps tightening - she can't tell why she wants to cry, all she knows is that things are going too slowly. She wiggles back from Hancock enough that she can shrug out of her flannel, Hancock helping with the undershirt and bandeau below.

She's been naked in front of him time after time - patching wounds, rain-bathing, changing into cooler and warmer gear - but his gaze still sweeps over her like a brushfire. His fingers stammer above her hips, remembering himself, and she presses herself into the seeking fingers. She doesn't say anything, but he understands that things are different now. Perhaps not forever; but for this moment, she is his.

They find their way to the bed, the ancient iron squealing as their weight lands on it. Every time that Nora opens her mouth to gasp, Hancock is there, covering her, stealing her breath and leaving her dizzy. His hands are rough as they trace across her ribs and down her injury-mottled side. It stings, and she's sure a few wounds have opened up, but she doesn't care. She doesn't even care when Hancock's hand raises to her chin, snapping it up sharply with blood-blushed fingertips.

"Hancock," she whines, more annoyed than she means to be. "Hurry up."

His rattling laugh warms her and makes her insides shudder in delight. "Insistent, aren't ya?" He says it teasingly, but even as he does, the hand on her chin releases her and finds her apex. He hovers there, teasing above her labia, coarse fingertips just barely caressing the folds.

"Please," she starts to say, but his hand is pressing into her, hard enough that electricity sparks in her fingertips. She yelps. If her brain hadn't descended into a fog, she would be embarrassed by the noise. If Hancock cracked a smile or teased her, she would have ended the whole ordeal, resigning herself to the empty pit of loneliness her life has become.

But he doesn't crack a smile. He doesn't tease her. Nora's cry has made his eyes expand, the inky irises glinting in harsh light.

His mouth is on hers again, hand insistent. Nora bucks her hips, trying to spur him on, but he pushes them back down with surprising force. The hot, coiling thing in her belly flares.

Hancock doesn't speed up in spite of her yowling, her wiggling like a beast in heat. When he is finally rubbing himself against her thigh, hard enough to bruise, he takes her mouth with his. He's rough, and it makes Nora's brain overload. She has a hard time focusing on anything - two fingers are inside of her, the tongue pinning hers down, the thump of his heart radiating from the wrist against her ear.

She wants to flip him over, to take control, to make this emotionless, nothing but rutting. Her hands rise to Hancock's chest, but they don't press him away. They flutter there until a particular drive inside of her makes her fingers and toes curl, her nails sticking in a furrow near his clavicle. She gasps and shudders, every nerve in her body exploding.

Hancock tosses her legs further apart, pulling away sooner than Nora wants and needs. But he slides between them, and with a bit of fumbling, positions himself. Nora watches Hancock and Hancock watches her. The moment stretches, both looking for something in the other's eyes.

"I've never had this much trouble asking a person to fuck me," she finally says, wanting to lighten the mood, wanting to forget the warm thing in his gaze, the adoration. She's seen it before, and it makes her feel guilty each time. It makes her feel like a monster. What the hell has this man endured that someone like her, someone who uses and discards, someone who forgets what love is, is the best thing in his world?

The look sputters, and his cool facade is back, a steel wall between them. A regulated distance. A safeguard. "Just questioning your choices, sunshine," he says with every ounce of serenity Nora has never known.

Before she can think of a retort, something aloof and sharp, something that sounds like her, he is inside of her, her legs instinctively raising, wrapping, restricting. He doesn't mind how much she squeezes him, an anaconda with a new guest. His panting turns to soft groans everytime he pushes just right, every time Nora tightens around him.

He refuses to let himself go. He keeps milking her climaxes, somehow delighting in each one so much that he refuses to let it end, pausing and shuddering when he's too close, using the time to rub her clit with a rough thumb. She's close to begging for an end, her entire body a livewire sputtering with too much energy and heat.

"Hancock," she pants the name like a plea. When her eyes open and she finds him watching her, Nora sees that emotion again. That warmth. God, she hates it. She hates that he's capable of it. "J-" she pauses and blinks, not sure why she is trying to torment him. Why she is trying to make this more difficult on him. "John."

It slips from her lips, and that is all it takes. Hancock rasps, his head lowering to her shoulder as his hips rock and stutter, as he grates out his affection with jagged bursts of air and her name.

She feels so cold when he slowly moves off of her. He's sitting on the side of the squealing bed, still shuddering, dazed expression slowly morphing to hesitation. Things have changed. She knows he's trying to find the fragments of what they were, of what they are, and make some kind of sense from it.

But there is no sense; not really. If Hancock manages to assemble them, it will be more mosaic than mirror. Gap-ridden. Hatefully jagged around the edges, smooth and full of tenderness close to the center.

"I'm cold," she tries to alleviate the panic rising in her own chest. Oh God, she's ruined everything. Oh God, there is no coming back from this.

But he chuckles, the steel barricade between his heart and his gaze rising. Hancock lowers himself to the bed and curls himself against her.

He is awake until she falls asleep. He is awake when she opens her eyes. She wonders if he's slept at all, or simply analyzed every pore on her cheeks, the slight bend in her nose, the ear against his lips, ragged from a healed bullet.

"We should get ready to break camp," Nora mumbles. She wonders if he noticed how she went rigid in his loose grip, the arm over her belly and fingers low on her hip.

"Daylight's wastin'," he replies and departs from her, getting dressed without any sign of regret. He doesn't put his coat on, though. He waits until Nora pulls her own out of her pack, slipping into it.

They share a scorched can of what turns out to be fermented peaches. They pack. They leave. They say nothing about it. What is there to say?

 

 

* * *


	12. Dear Duncan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora, MacCready, mentions of Shaun, mentions of Duncan. 
> 
> Implied drug abuse, implied alcoholism, PTSD, and feels.

* * *

 

Nora feels the hypocrisy like knives on her skin, sharp and persistent without cutting. She swallows and rolls her tongue around in her mouth, trying to relieve the scratchy dryness. It's one of the worst side-effects of the machines - so much time slips by unnoticed, and the body continues to suffer outside of it.

When Irma arrives, her eyes hooded, Nora lets out a shaky breath. "The caps are in my bag."

"I know where the caps are," Irma replies, her tone gentle even though she's trying to seem formidable. "And I don't want them. Get out of the chair and go get some food."

"I'm fine-"

"You've been strapped in for 36 hours. Nick will kill me if I let you die in here."

Didn't Nora pity the people who wasted away in the Den? Didn't she think them too weak? Unable to move away from the past? And now look at her. _Fucking hypocrite._ Nora swallows again; her throat is so scratchy. She might be getting sick; these things tend to happen when a person gives up on everything. "Irma-"

"I'm not arguing with you - get up and get some food. You're locked out for 24 hours."

Nora's too weak to fight it. She's too weak to even think about fighting it. She gets up with some difficulty; Irma's hands are fluttering like nervous butterflies around her elbow, preparing to grab her if she falls. But she doesn't. She takes her pack from Irma - who again tells her to get sleep - before trudging out of the Memory Den.

The Rexford's food has never been great, but it tastes especially terrible on Nora's tongue. The beer doesn't help the scratchiness on her throat, and the Drinkin' Buddy's awful jokes don't help her headache.

She gets a room. She's sure that Hancock would let her bunk in his place somewhere, but she doesn't want him to see her like this. Especially not when she gets a look at herself in a dirty mirror. She's gaunt, moreso than ever. She looks as good as dead, as close to a ghoul as her skin allows.

Nora lets out a breath and slinks to the bed. It's impressive what post-apocalyptic life does to a person; once upon a time, Nora would have been horrified at the prospect of spending a night in a bed like this. Who knows how long it's been since the blankets were washed - if they've _ever_ seen soap and water. If bedbugs are hiding in the seams of the mattress, just waiting for her guard to fall and her warmth to draw them out.

When she closes her eyes, she sees him again. It's hard not to; he's all she's thought about for the past month. He's the only thing in her head, ceaselessly looping like an old RobCo jingle.

The boy with her son's face. The synth who insisted he wasn't a synth. The one she left to die in the Institute explosion.

She closes her eyes tight and leans into it, leans into the memory she's replayed over and over in her head. In her dreams. In the Memory Den. She's going insane; she knows that - but it doesn't matter.

 _"Are you sure you want to leave him, General?"_ Preston had asked, standing there with the self-destruct code a button's push away from initiating.

 _"Mother!"_ the thing that wore Shaun's face cried. There were tears; Nora hadn't realized that at the time. It took four rounds at the Memory Den to discover that nugget.

 _"He's not my son,"_ she replied. She was flippant. She was cold.

She was a fucking monster.

 

* * *

 

She sleeps until she can't anymore, annoyed to discover it's only been ten hours. Twelve more to go. Twelve more, and then maybe she'll finally determine if the boy was really hers. Why the synth would lie about it if he wasn't. Why she even cared if he was her son or a synth at all. Why she couldn't do that one simple thing; save him. Love him.

She goes to Hancock's for a chem break, but he's out 'attending to business,' as Ferenheit says. She doesn't offer more, but Nora doesn't blame her. Fahrenheit first met Nora while Nora was unintentionally assisting a robbery in Hancock's storerooms. Fahrenheit's trust has a high bar, and Nora doesn't come close to reaching it.

Twelve hours.

Sighing, she turns herself toward the Third Rail. Nora isn't fond of the place - too many people, too much noise - but Magnolia sings well and flirts even better, and Whitechapel Charlie leaves her be. She waves a lethargic hello to Ham but keeps walking when he asks her if she's slept in the past year.

Magnolia isn't there, but there are about twenty patrons, half of which look like every person Nora's ever shot. Raiders. Skavvers. A Gunner or two, maybe.

Not that it matters.

Nora buys two bottles from Charlie, not sure if she's in the mood for the depression rum brings her, or the arrogant snark whiskey produces. She carries her bottles and a chipped tumbler into the VIP room off the side of the bar. It's always empty, always quiet.

But not now. Of course not now, Nora muses to herself, standing in the doorway and staring at the interloper. It's a kid, or so he looks at first glance. 20-something, maybe. When he looks up at her, his eyes are threatening; it startles Nora enough that she pauses halfway through her stride.

"What do you need, lady?" he asks.

Nora raises an eyebrow. "Quiet. You mind?" She nods toward the end of the room, a small table shoved far enough away from him, and he shrugs.

"As long as you're not planning on stabbing me in the back, you can sit wherever you want."

"Not planning on it at the moment. We'll see what happens."

The man looks as if he's taking her seriously for a moment before an awkward smile tilts his lips. He goes back to whatever he's working on - he has a pen and what looks like an old notebook; his hand roughly scrapes across the page like he's unfamiliar with the process.

Nora retreats to the back of the room and uncorks the whiskey bottle. She pours three fingers' worth, and then she settles in for a long twelve hours. Or how many hours it takes for her to pass out or die from alcohol poisoning.

"Jesus Christ," the man says suddenly after some time has passed.

Nora, now on her second glass and beginning to get comfortable, startles at it. "What the hell?"

"You sitting back there is freaking me out."

Nora lets out a sigh. She doesn't blame the kid, not really; she'd make herself nervous, too. She gets to her feet, grabs her things, and bumps her way to join the man at his table. He raises a brow at her, unimpressed, and Nora shrugs. "You didn't want me at your back. Now you can see me anytime you want."

He stares at her, unblinking, before returning to his pen and paper. "Sure thing, lady."

He writes. Nora drinks. He scratches out more words than he leaves on the paper, the page looking like some kind of redacted military report. She can't tell what he's writing, but she can tell he's taking up too much precious paper for so few words.

"Do you want me to write for you?" she asks, not meaning to. "I mean, I'm fairly sure whoever you're writing to is gonna need a damn cipher to figure that out." The wisecracking snark has shown up without her realizing. She should have settled on the rum.

He looks annoyed when he raises his eyes to her. They're blue - so goddamn blue it's surprising. She doesn't look away from his gaze, and he doesn't drop his. There's something harder there, something much older and much more violent than someone his age should know - than anyone should know.

He eventually shoves the pad of paper her way, tossing the pen down. "You plannin' to drink that bottle?"

Nora laughs and slides the rum toward him, flipping to a clean page in the book and readying the pen. "Let's go, kid. Before my hand gets too shaky."

"You have been hittin' that bottle a little hard," he agrees, glancing at the whiskey as he swigs from the rum.

"Let's see how you're doing with yours in ten minutes," she retorts without heat. "Who are you writing to?"

"None of your business."

Nora raises a brow at him. "So...what, I should write 'to whom it may concern'?"

The man grits his teeth and takes another pull before fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. "Duncan."

 _Dear Duncan,_  she writes. She hasn't written in so long that her penmanship looks foreign. She isn't sure if anyone can read cursive anymore, so she switches to painstakingly simplified script halfway through Duncan's name.

"Ready when you are."

The man sighs and takes a drag on his cigarette before passing it to her. She takes a few puffs and hands it back, blowing a speck of ash from the page.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write." The man pauses. "I'm not writing this, obviously. I found someone who can do it without f -- messing up half the letters."

"Did you just censor _yourself?"_

"Shut up and write," he snaps, but he's flushing with embarrassment, not anger. Nora writes and waits for him to continue. "I know I've been gone a while. I'm getting...closer to coming home. I know you..." he trails off and swallows another mouthful of rum. "I don't know what to say."

"You want me to write that?"

The man stares at her as if she's daft. "Of course I don't -- who are you?"

Nora shrugs and grabs the cigarette from him, taking a few more hits. "No one, really. Are any of us someone?" The question does more to spook the kid than she expected, so she clears her throat and adds, "Nora. I'm...not really sure how else to answer that."

He nods, looks wistful for a moment, and then says, "MacCready. I don't really know how to answer it, either."

The share a look, a common understanding, before MacCready sighs. "Duncan's my son. I had to leave him. It's a long story."

"Most of them are."

He thinks about it for a moment before taking another swig, another puff. "Duncan, I know you're gonna stay strong for me. I'm gonna come back, and I'm gonna make sure...you're gonna be okay. I'm close to finding something to help. I swear. I'm gonna come home and, when I do, I'm never gonna leave you again."

Nora doesn't expect the tears that suddenly sting her eyes. _I'm never going to leave you._ Hadn't she made that promise to Shaun when he was born? Hadn't she thought it in that same tone, the one that spoke of love and terror and loyalty? Didn't she know these words so well, too well?

And didn't she break them all the same?

She wipes at her cheeks angrily, hating herself. God, it is just like her to make everything about herself.

"Are you...okay?"

Nora tries to laugh it off. "It's...sweet. It's real and honest. It's hard to find real and honest."

He snorts. _"Fuck though,_ right?" he winces. "I, ah. I made a promise to him that I'd clean myself up. Stop being so...me, I guess."

"The sacrifices we make for our children."

"You have kids?" he asks when she pushes the letter back to him. He painstakingly writes _I love you - Dad,_  and it makes the tears threaten to spring up again.

"I did. A son."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. More than I can even say."

They stare at one another again; the kinship is sudden and absolute. Neither knows how to voice it, so they sit and drink, sharing cigarettes until his pack is empty.

"I should...I guess I should get this to Daisy. She's been gettin' things to Duncan for me. Caravans, or whatever." He shrugs, eyes unfocused as they stare at the letters on the page.

She nods and watches him assemble his pack and fold the paper carefully, tucking it away in his coat pocket. He looks lost. He looks like a child himself.

"Is he sick? Duncan, I mean," she asks before he can leave.

MacCready hesitates before turning back to her. "Yeah."

"And you're looking for a way to save him?" At MacCready's nod, Nora bites the inside of her cheek, trying to think of what she wants, what she needs. "Do you...need help? Another gun?"

MacCready's face crumples for a second, just a brief moment, but he composes himself in time. "I can't pay you."

"I wasn't planning on asking you to." When he doesn't respond, when he simply stares at her, she lets out a slow breath. "I lost my son. I know what it feels like. I know -- I know the guilt, the self-loathing. And if I can spare anyone this feeling," she tries to get it out without slurring. Her hand raises to her heart, the piece of her that is so broken she can barely feel it anymore. "Then I want to."

MacCready clears his throat and turns away, but she catches the glistening in his eyes. "Can't stop you from following me, I guess. Just don't annoy me or I might shoot you, good handwriting or not."

She laughs, surprised that it's genuine, and shoulders her pack. "Well then, MacCready. Let's go."

 

* * *

 


	13. War is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special Christmas chapter (because why not?) - no mentions of religion
> 
> SFW - Nora, Piper, Nat. Feels. It's intended to be platonic, but you can see it as a pre-relationship thing if you squint.

 

* * *

 

There had been a point in time, back in olden days of yore, when Christmas had been Nora's favorite holiday. Granted, it ended by the time she was fifteen and learned about Halloween parties. Her parents would never have expected perfect Nora to sneak out of the house for Devil's Night, to drink lukewarm beer and too much vodka, to stumble home after fighting off pawing upperclassmen, to scale the wobbly trellis to get into bed before Father's morning rounds.

Nate had never been one for Christmas, either; their tiny counter-top Christmas tree was enough for him. _Why should we spend money every year to put a dying tree in our house? Plus the dog. Jesus. He'd eat all of the tinsel and piss on the tree skirt._

To Nate's credit, Rascal was dumb enough to eat tinsel. He already had 'peeing on the rug' down, so a tree skirt wasn't much of a stretch. "That's fine," Nora had replied honestly. It didn't stop her from the wistful feeling snow brought, or the sight of dear, sweet Lettie's house done up in lights. Or the poinsettias on the Hammon's front door. Or children bundled in their coats and gloves, squealing in delight as they romped and played.

Or the thought that Nate might let it slip that Santa wasn't real to their son. That their son would be _that child_ who ruined the magic for other kids. That their son wouldn't know the magic the season could bright, the warmth, the light. That he wouldn't have a piece of normal childhood, one that had been so special to her.

"Deep in thought, I see."

Nora knows it's Piper before the raven-haired woman sits beside her at the noodle bar. Even so, Nora pretends to be surprised. "I guess you could say that." Nora waves Takahashi over, eyes never leaving Piper. "It's a little late to be delivering papers, isn't it?"

Piper lets out a sigh between wistfully quirked lips. "Just out for some air. I like the market this late. Not too many people. Quiet. Lets you think things are a little better, you know? Like _maybe_ this is a place where you're not constantly worried your little sister is gonna get attacked or kidnapped or-"

"Jesus, Piper," Nora interrupts.

Piper breaks off and tilts her head. "I might be a bit depressed. And a bit drunk."

"If you're worrying a badass like Nat is going to be bested by anything less than a super mutant, you're definitely drunk." Nora turns her attention to the robot and his usual question, the one that is uttered anytime someone passes near enough to his restaurant. _Nan-ni shimasko-ka?_ God, Nora's heard it so often that it's permeated her dreams on more than one occasion. "Or maybe you're not drunk enough?" She motions to the offerings on sale behind Takahashi's bulbous body before pointing at one of the smaller vodka bottles.

Takahashi provides it, along with two glasses, and Nora pays for the expensive liquor. Piper says nothing while Nora pours two fingers' worth in each and pushes one at Piper. "Vodka always solves the Christmas blues. Or it gets you drunk enough to pass out and forget them."

Piper snorts and leans back enough on her stool to glance up at the hanging lights above them, bringing the glass to her lips and wincing, seemingly regretting it. "Good God, Blue. How do you drink this shit?" Even so, she tips the glass again, taking another swallow before coughing.

"It's fantastic, isn't it?" Nora laughs without meaning to. She tries not to let her guard down too much. Piper has never given her a reason for this hesitation; she's a wonderful companion, an excellent reporter, and an incredible sister. A protector of the weak and downtrodden. A seeker of truth. Nora isn't sure there's a nobler person she's met, a purer one, and that is why Nora keeps her distance.

Nothing good comes from traveling with Nora. Not for long. And even though it is ultimately Piper's choice if she wants to lay down her life and ruin Nat's...Nora can't bear the thought of it.

"I used to drink vodka like water every December," Nora says, taking three swallows and barely feeling the burn. She's become immune to it over the past week's bingeing. "We didn't have a tree, but we had vodka, so." She raises the glass to the sky, not sure who she is saluting or why.

"Wait...you didn't have a tree?" Piper interrupts loudly, the pitch making Nora wince. "Holy shit -- even _Takahashi_ has a tree."

"Nan-ni shimasko-ka?" the robot asks.

"What? No, fuck off." Nora turns her attention back to Piper and tops off their glasses. "We had a little fake tree on the counter. It doesn't matter. What are you guys doing tomorrow?"

"Same as always," Piper shrugs, but her jaw sets. "We'll open presents. Nat's will be twelve bottles of Nuka-Cola and a shitty necklace I convinced Myrna to price down for me. I'll open mine, and it will be something Nat's made herself, or something symbolic or meaningful. Last year she managed to cobble together the press. Oh, the press broke last year," she adds with a shrug and another pull of vodka. "I guess we haven't seen you since then."

It isn't accusing, but it doesn't stop Nora from feeling guilty. She finishes her drink and pours another. "I'm sorry."

Piper sighs and reaches for the bottle. "Don't worry about it, Blue. You have a Commonwealth to save."

"How's Nat?"

"Same as usual. Too old for how young she is."

They both go quiet, lost in the hum of generators. They finish their drinks and ignore two more requests of _Nan-ni shimasko-ka?_

"Are you sticking around for long?" Piper finally asks. She's slurring around the edges, her eyes unfocused.

"A few days. Maybe a week." It's all she can think to say.

"Well, say bye before you leave." Piper stands, holding the bar as she does. She blinks and sways until her center of gravity adjusts, then offers Nora a sad, sloppy smile. "Merry Christmas, Blue." The woman puts a hand on Nora's shoulder, a passing farewell, and turns to go, stumbling only once over a clod of dirt.

"Shit," Nora says to no one.

"Nan-ni shimasko-ka?"

Nora glares at the machine, finishing the bottle and leaving it on the bar for the damn robot to clean up.

 

* * *

 

When Nora knocks on the door to the Publick Occurrences, Nat is the one to open it. The girl has a tarnished silver chain around her neck and an old, red-stained sock in her hand. "Nora!" she exclaims.

"Hey," she greets awkwardly, rocking back on her heels. "So, I know it's Christmas and everything, but I was wondering if you guys were doing anything right now?"

"I mean, we're _never_ doing anything," Nat says as if they aren't the only source of print-news in the 'Wealth. Without warning, she leans back and shouts, "Piper! Nora's here!"

The living quarters are small, but Piper is at the door faster than Nora expects. "Hey," Nora greets.

"Wow, twice in one day? Color me surprised," Piper teases, but there's a hint of seriousness snaking through the words.

"Piper! You saw her and didn't-"

Nora interrupts Nat before any sisterly bickering can erupt. "I actually thought you guys might want a change of scenery."

Piper raises a brow at her, but Nora only smiles, stuffing her hands into her Railroad jacket pockets. "Just come on."

Nat is already grabbing her ratty coat, and Piper lets out a suffering sigh. "I didn't say we could go."

"You didn't say we couldn't go," is Nat's sound reasoning. Piper can't argue and slides out of the door and into the street, still in her slippers. "I assume you're not taking us into a firefight?"

"Don't worry, that's for New Year's."

Piper snorts, unable to keep the severe act going. "Alright, alright, let's go before we freeze to death out here."

They don't go far. When they make it to Nora's seldom-used home in the square, Piper groans. "Oh my God, I'm not putting another dining set together for you, Blue. I'm sorry, I draw the line on this one. I got _ten million_ splinters. I had to see Doc Sun to get some of them out, for Christ's sake."

Nora swings the door open, and Nat laughs, the sound startling the few people in the marketplace. Piper turns another skeptical look to Nora before taking the bait and walking in.

After she and Piper parted that morning, the guilt eating away at Nora had taken such a toll that she couldn't sleep. It took Nora the rest of the early morning, half of the afternoon, and a fortune in caps, but the look on Nat and Piper's faces is worth it.

Nora adores the way Nat is suddenly a child again, a real child, a child who doesn't know about hate and pain and the absolute monstrosity of the world. She is giddy as she walks through the makeshift living room, the floor covered in finely torn white cloth.

The greenest leaves Nora could find in the half-dark of Boston's streets pepper the workbench in the corner, a sad replacement for garland. She's strung various lights through the room, as many as she could find and buy off of Percy. She'd even woken Myrna up at six in the morning, shoving caps at her to borrow her multicolored string lights for the day.

And 'borrowed' Takahashi's tree. She still isn't sure if he actually said yes to the request, but the guards hadn't shown up to cart her off yet.

"This is amazing!" Nat exclaims, tossing some cloth in the air, fragments tangling in her hair as snow would. And then she is off to explore around the corner. It doesn't take long for her to squeal, "Piper!"

Piper is rooted to the spot, still staring around her as if addled. Nora takes the sleeve of her scratchy, handmade sweater - from Nat, Nora assumes - and pulls her along.

Nat is leaning over the rickety table Piper made with her two hands, staring with unbridled wanting at the food on the table. "Is this for us?" Nat asks. Demands. Insists.

Nora bites her lower lip and nods. Everything in Nat's face makes Nora's heart warm. She thought she'd lost the opportunity for this wholesomeness a long time ago.

Nat is in one of the chairs, already picking out which slice of brahmin shank she wants. Piper slowly joins her sister, eyes wide and confused as she regards the spread. It's nothing fancy, entirely comprising of things Nora could convince Wellingham and Cooke to part with on such short notice. The tossed vegetables are cold and slightly squishy, the InstaMash is of questionable quality, the Nuka-Colas are grape flavored, and the two wine bottles are both missing liquid. The brahmin is somewhat overcooked, blackened to char in some spots, but even so, the Wright sisters cannot tear their eyes from it all.

Nora sits beside Piper and grins at Nat. "Well? Get in there before I eat it all."

Piper laughs, the spell breaking enough for her to look at Nora. "This is...something else."

"It was short notice."

"No, it's amazing," she says, eyes again drawn to the haphazard lighting above them. "It's...perfect."

Nora can't hear Nat's words past the food in her mouth, but she's reasonably sure that Nat agrees. She pours wine into two chipped glasses and hands one to Piper. "Cheers."

Piper bites the inside of her cheek and nods, swallowing hotly to keep herself from breaking down.

"How about some music?" Nora slips out of the chair and returns to the living room, flipping the radio on and turning it up. Diamond City Radio seems to be celebrating, as well; the song filtering through the house is a duet, a tribute to the vapidness of her era's Christmases. Nora remembers hating that damned song, but it brings a smile to her face now. Nostalgia does that, she supposes.

"Why did you do this?"

Nora turns, surprised at the soft, serious tone. Piper has joined her in the living room, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

"I...I wanted to?"

"Because you felt guilty."

It isn't a question. Even if it is, Nora doesn't want to answer it honestly. She's smart enough to know that answering that frankly is a grave she can't climb out from. "Piper, I _wanted_ to."

Piper keeps swallowing, blinking, sucking in her cheeks. Nora's worried she might be having a stroke until she rasps out, "If you take off and leave that girl thinking you're dead again, God so help me, I will make sure you _are_ in the ground."

"What-" Nora cuts herself off, realizing all that is happening in front of her. Realizing finally, _finally_ , that this was the first time she'd seen Nat since they'd bonded. Since they spent entire weeks on the floor behind her breezeblock bedroom wall, Nat more than happy to have a bed-ridden, bullet-wounded roommate. Since they read scorched dime novels and pulp magazines together, acting out the voices and giggling wildly when they were caught and snapped at by a sleep-deprived Piper.

Since she promised to help Nat fix up her bicycle, a side project of torn scrap metal and pierced tires.

Nora feels it all at once, a punch to the gut rendering her breathless. She raises her gaze to Piper; the woman is openly crying now, thick, silent tears dripping from her jaw.

"I'm so sorry," Nora whispers, shaking her head. "Jesus, Piper, I'm so sorry."

Piper swallows and stares while her chin threatens to tremble.

"I didn't mean to do that. I just...I didn't want her to lose you; I wanted to get you out of this. I didn't want -- shit, Piper. I didn't want a lot of things."

"That doesn't mean you get to disappear then show up like nothing happened, like she didn't worry about you. Like _I_ didn't worry about you. You can't keep doing this to us."

She's right, but Nora can't explain how something so simple, something so goddamn obvious, wasn't clear to her until now. She isn't good at this. She isn't good at anything anymore. "I won't."

"Promise me."

Nora wants to run. She wants to grab Piper and hug her. She wants to give Nat this joy every holiday, every birthday, every day, even. She wants to never leave. "I won't disappear. Not willingly."

Piper closes her eyes and the tears trembling on her lower lashes fall, making their trek down her flushed cheeks. "Blue-"

"I promise," Nora adds.

Piper nods and wipes at her face, eyes rising to the ceiling as if embarrassed. She takes a deep breath before leaning into Nora, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

Piper is gone before Nora can process it, turning on her heel and traipsing to the dining table as if nothing happened, as if she wasn't close to collapse mere moments ago. "Geeze, Nat! Leave some for the rest of us!"

Nora takes a beat, focusing on the music. She turns it up and lets out a breath, wiping her cheeks. Unlike the previous song, this one was a favorite.

Nora returns to the table and watches Piper and Nat lovingly taunt one another. She tosses a small glob of InstaMash at Nat and is rewarded by Piper's musical, uncontrolled laughter. Nora takes a few globs of mash to her hair but doesn't mind because Piper and Nat are happier than she's ever seen them.

Nat falls into a food coma on the 'snow' covered couch while Piper and Nora sprawl across the floor, wine drunk and silent, listening to the radio.

"Merry Christmas, Blue," Piper says at some point. Nora hums in return, peeking through heavy lids to find Piper turned toward her, eyes wet and intense. "Seriously. This...no one has ever done anything like this for us. Or for anyone anywhere, probably." She chuckles at that, a soft little scoff, and sighs.

"So I did good?"

"You did good."

"You forgive me?"

Piper laughs, and Nat grumbles at the noise, rolling over and shoving her head into the couch cushions. "I don't know if I'm ever gonna forgive you for that vanishing act. But," she draws, laying down and pressing her face against Nora's shoulder, "this certainly didn't hurt your chances any."

Nora tucks her face against Piper's hair. "Merry Christmas, Piper."

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A very merry Christmas and a happy New Year -  
> Let's hope it's a good one without any fear.  
> (War is over if you want it. [War is over now](https://open.spotify.com/track/3zJw3rugfpVrmBeDDnUYzy?si=N-hCaqttQn2M-4fNN1w1dg).)"
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone! xoxo


	14. Fever - Nora/Nate Pre-War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SFW - Nora/Nate, Shaun, Codsworth

* * *

 

"We still need to go to the pumpkin patch."

"Do we really?" Nora asks, glancing up from her mug and smirking at her husband over the rim. "Shaun's three months old. He's not going to know the difference if we go to a pumpkin patch or grab one from Super Duper Mart. We need more wine, by the way."

She pretends that she can't see Nate staring at her as if she just kicked a box of kittens into traffic. "We'll take pictures."

"Of what? Him screaming in terror when we put him in front of a bulbous orange thing the size of his crib?"

"Do you know what size pumpkins are?"

Nora laughs, breaking another mock-argument and tilting her head. "If you really want to go, we can go."

"But?"

"But, I just don't see the point of getting the flu from one of those pumpkins after ten thousand children have touched and licked and who-knows-what to them."

"And... Super Duper Mart is any safer?"

"Fair point," she concedes, sipping her coffee and glancing back at the magazine on the counter. Vapid trash, but like every other woman she knows, she can't stop flipping the pages. _What your hem length means for your prospects. 10 tips for better stuffing this Thanksgiving. Perfect looks for mother-and-baby this winter._

"How do they find such pretty babies?" she asks aloud, eyes sweeping over the clothing and making mental notes to see if rose gold looked good against her skin. "They're all so gorgeous."

"It can't be that hard. Shaun's not too bad himself." Nora purses her lips, which makes Nate fully put down the paper. "Are you saying our son is ugly?"

"I would never!" she laughs. "I am just saying...Shaun's nose is a little weird."

"The Hammonds said it will even out in a few months."

"Sure, but what about that chin?"

"He has my chin."

She bites her lower lip and flutters her eyes. "I know."

"Sir! Mum! Might I request your assistance?"

Nate raises a brow at Nora, folding his paper and putting it on the couch beside him. "We're gonna have to have a talk about this chin thing."

"Your chin on an infant? Do we really need to talk about it?"

Nate tickles her side when they meet in the hallway; she laughs and bumps her hip against his, leaning into him. His arm is effortless as it slides around her back and his hand hooks at her hip.

"What's up, Codsworth?" Nate asks when they make it to Shaun's room. The robot is circling between the crib and the changing station, somehow looking flustered without a face.

"Oh thank goodness. I fear Master Shaun might be ill."

"Ill?" Nora asks, moving to the crib and touching Shaun's dewy cheek, her frown deepening. "He's burning up. Nate-"

"Calling Doctor Alberts," he interrupts, already leaving the room.

Nora picks Shaun up and tucks him against her chest. He's radiating heat from every part of him. "Codsworth, what happened?"

"I'm not sure, ma'am. He was fussy with breakfast but he was not so warm. I am reading a fever of 101.2 at the moment."

"Damnit," she mumbles, pressing her lips to Shaun's forehead. The touch burns, but she can't stop feathering kisses to his downy head. They always knew this would happen eventually; Nora hadn't expected it so soon. It is terrifying in a way Nora never thought possible. It's a little fever - how can a little fever spike terror through her?

Nate is back, his eyes still wide. He's panicking, too, and he never panics. "We can take him in right now."

"Here, mum, I shall change-"

"I'll take care of it," Nora says firmly. She knows it isn't Codsworth's fault, but she's never fully trusted the robot. "Thank you, you can go."

"Nora," Nate sighs.

"Yes, ma'am. Shall I wait to start lunch until you return?"

"Sure, whatever," she mutters, putting Shaun in his crib and shuffling around for proper clothing. Nate is still standing in the doorway; she isn't sure if he's watching her or Shaun, but his presence is like a monster at her back. "What?" she asks finally.

"Nothing."

She turns on him sharply, holding tiny mismatched socks. "What, Nate? If you have something to say-"

"You don't have to be so hard on him," he finally says. "He's doing a good job. He's great with Shaun. You're acting like he's purposely getting our son sick."

It's as ridiculous as it sounds when Nate says it, but Nora can't shake it. "Could you get the car warmed up, please?"

Nate sighs heavily, looking in at Shaun, before leaving the room.

Nora finishes picking out clothing while berating herself for being so sharp. Nate's right; Nate's almost always right.

She dresses Shaun while singing a Mr. Handy commercial jingle. She tickles his little feet, but it doesn't make him give a shudder and toothless grin like it usually does. He fusses, covering his face with his uncoordinated hands, the tiny abalone nails too short to scratch but trying their damnedest.

"It's alright, everything's alright," Nora coos. She prefers the fussing; it means there's still fight in him. It's just a little cold. It's nothing Doctor Alberts can't solve. She's panicking for nothing.

She bundles him up but then pauses. Is she supposed to bundle him if he has a fever? Do the layers force him to sweat the fever out? Or does it cook his brain? Oh, God, she knows nothing. How did anyone let her become a mother? She doesn't know anything about this.

"Codsworth!" she calls, really truly hoping Nate is outside in the car and can't hear her. "Codsworth, I need your help!"

He's there immediately and Nora finds herself near tears. "Do I bundle him? Do I -- Codsworth, what do I do?"

"It's alright, mum," he assures her gently, going to the other side of the crib. "Let's see what the little sir is wearing, shall we?" Nora places Shaun in the crib and Codsworth hums. "Well then, I think you chose a nice outfit for him, but perhaps we should remove the coat? We don't want his fever to rise."

"Right," Nora whispers, quickly pulling Shaun's tiny arms from the coat sleeves. "Right, of course. B-but isn't he going to get cold? We're going to be outside for a little bit. What-"

"I would suggest a blanket," he offers, humming as two of his appendages open the closet and reach for the stack of lightweight blankets on the top shelf. "Here we are! Perfect. Would you like my help getting Master Shaun into the car?"

Nora lets out a breath and looks at the robot. "No, I...I have it." Before he can go, she adds, "Thank you. I'm...I'm really glad we have you."

"Of course; it is my absolute pleasure! There is no family I would rather serve."

Nora takes in a breath and lets it out before picking Shaun up and holding him close, draping his blanket around him. He smells like warm honey against her nose and she subconsciously buries her face into the downy fuzz of his hair.

She makes it to the side door and glances back at Codsworth. "Maybe soup for lunch? Something light."

"That is a wonderful idea! I will be ready to prepare it when you get back."

"Thanks, Codsworth."

"Anything for you, mum."

 

* * *

 


End file.
